in the presence of fortune-tellers, I fold
my fingers into fists to keep secret
my lines // my life, my love, my work

I’m such a hypocrite// I learned
Chinese astrology, my daily to-do
based on twelve animals, five elements

I was born a chicken drawn to flame
a golden dragon almost killed me
wood horse brought a scrap of fame

but superstition isn’t fate // the future
continues not to exist // I want my hands
to cradle as much as they can handle

the dough I knead to grow on its own //
rising each night while I sleep// my fingers
instinctively finding their ur-fists

Published in Bamboo Ridge